


no touch, no feel (you take, you steal)

by pleasantlydemented



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, One Shot, Smut, reader interpretation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6433591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasantlydemented/pseuds/pleasantlydemented
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, one-shot, up to reader interpretation, just some words all thrown together to get them out of my head - sorry?</p>
            </blockquote>





	no touch, no feel (you take, you steal)

She might’ve found his gentle persistence charming once upon a time. Maybe she does now. 

The way he shows up in the bar right after he finishes his shift at the auto body place down the road. 

Only, of course, when he _somehow_ knows she’ll be tending. 

The way he calmly orders his booze, round after round, until long after last call and closing time, without so much more than a quiet _“hey, Greene”_ and maybe some insignificant small talk. 

The way he follows her to her truck when her shift ends. And it isn’t as if he’s asked to _walk her to her vehicle_ like some nineteenth-century chivalrous gentleman, and she certainly hasn’t asked to be escorted anywhere in her life. Not in _this_ life, anyway. 

It’s just a thing he does. A thing they do. 

Sometimes she offers him a quiet invitation to her place. Her shitty little apartment across town, where they might drink and smoke and tease each other with hushed laughter for a while until they end the night falling into each other, tangled in her sheets. 

Other times, she simply wishes him a good night, climbs into the driver’s seat of her truck, and goes home. No questions asked. No answers offered. 

She’s not entirely sure when or how or why it started, this thing. They met at a sleazy party a few months ago. Beth had only gone to get her coworkers off of her back. Plus, free booze. Not that she encounters any difficulty with that any other day; she works at a bar, after all. 

She’d been sitting outside in an old, uncomfortable lawn chair, milking her beer for all of its worth. It’d been far too stuffy and crowded inside - for her, anyway. Too many people who crept too close to some semblance of the truth when they spoke to her and asked her question after mindless question. 

She’d been ready to leave hours earlier. But it was during those days that she’d been struggling with the isolation in her world. The lack of meaning. And she hadn’t been quite sure what sort of meaning her life had in that particular moment either, because all she was doing was taking up space in a random chair in a random person’s back yard. 

He’d approached her then the same way he does now. Quiet and curious but not aggressive. 

“Think your friends might be leavin’,” he’d mumbled, taking a drag of his cigarette. 

He hadn’t been looking at her when she’d turned toward his voice. He was looking at the sky, leaning up against the cracked siding of the house. 

“Not my friends,” she’d replied, directing her attention to the sky as well. It’d been a clear night. Warm. Mid-summer. She’d have loved it, once. 

She glanced back at him, and his head was directed down. She could just make out his smoke-outlined silhouette created by the light fixture near his head, and she’d almost wished, just then, that he were a ghost. A friendly one. A familiar one. 

He cleared his throat quietly and straightened himself, meeting her eyes. 

Somehow he’d ended up back at her place. It wasn’t anything she’d ever really done before. 

They were clumsy. Awkward. Trying to learn each other without taking the time to study. Their teeth had clacked together and he’d bitten down roughly onto her tongue when she’d grown eager enough to thrust it into his mouth. 

They’d made it to her tiny twin-sized bed in her glorified box of a bedroom and, somehow, they’d managed to remove the majority of one another’s clothes. 

She was naked and underneath him and she felt wild and reckless and a level of desire she hadn’t experienced – ever, not that she could remember. And she would’ve. 

His wife-beater tank was sticking to his sweat-laden skin and the sight of the reflection of the moonlight off of the curves of the muscles outlining his upper back and shoulders was making her writhe and pant underneath him. 

She yanked his hips down hard – this stranger’s hips, this _Daryl’s_ hips – and slipped her hands under the loose elastic of his boxers, gasping loudly and so very uncharacteristically when his erection ground into the apex of her thighs. 

“Shit,” he panted, hanging his head down over hers. “Ain’t got a condom.” He’d nearly groaned the words and the pitch and volume and undercurrent of tenderness outlining the roughness of his voice made her want to pierce his skin with her teeth and let his blood flow over her and into her. 

“I’m on the pill,” she breathed as she arched her hips up and into his. “Really, it’s fine.” 

His hips started moving then, as if her words had been some kind of twisted permission that fractured the last shred of his restraint. 

He’d fucked her like she’d never been fucked that night. It’d been frantic and lacking the fumbling clumsiness that’d been so pronounced during the opening acts. It’d been deep but fast and he’d grunted words that would’ve made her blush, once, and he sunk his teeth into the skin of the shell of her ear when he’d started to come, when she’d been riding out the waves of her own orgasm. 

And when she thinks about that first time - because maybe she does or maybe she did or maybe she _will_ \- the edges of her heart, once jagged sculptures created from shards of ice, begin to blur and heat and melt. 

It’s just a thing she does.


End file.
